


Run, little blond boy, Run

by heizl



Series: Marvel One Shots [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Everyone Is Alive, Gen, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Clint Barton, Reminiscing, Running, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 09:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16490363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: Three months had passed since the twins had lost their home country. It was painful, to lose everything you grew up with, but Wanda was just overjoyed to still have her brother. No one thought he'd survive and he'd very much already accepted his fate. He never considered himself a religious person, but as his vision started to fade from stark white to pitch black, he found himself praying under his breath.Once they'd all gotten back on their feet and to base, Clint took on the legal process of adopting the both of them.Now they lived with Clint and his family; he considered them no different than his own children.Pietro was scared to get back to running. Well, maybe scared was a weak word. He didn't know how. Anytime his legs were moving, his stomach would clench and he'd feel trapped, like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Clint really wanted Pietro to get back to running though. He always loved running, way before the experiments.TL;DR:The one where Pietro survived, Clint adopted the twins, and now dad Clint wants to get Pietro back to running.





	Run, little blond boy, Run

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was going to be a longer/ multi-chaptered story, but it ended up sort of getting abandoned. In the end, I feel like a one-shot fits it better.
> 
> Finished this and wrote it at first for Marvel Amino but wanted to post it here as well. :-)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pietro's vision was out of focus, clear sign that he was either too tired or too lost in his own thoughts. He'd been mindlessly tapping away at his computer for half an hour now, in silence, and it was starting to make his skin itch. So with a bite of his lip and a small sigh, he reached for his iPod shuffle — still never got around to buying a new one, too many songs on it to just use his phone.

  
  
He swiped his finger across the scratched screen, looking through what seemed like an endless amount of playlists.  
None of the genres even remotely went together, from Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams” (Wanda was always listening to Taylor Swift, especially after discovering that Clint owned three of her CDs) to P.O.D.’s “Youth of the Nation”.

 

Fuck it. He was feeling sad and nostalgic. He pressed one of his old running songs.

 

 

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ

[Run boy Run](https://youtu.be/ppmMUTIoleo)

ılıılıılıılıılıılı

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

0:04 ─●──────── 3:34

◁          II          ▷

 

 

He was again back to tapping on his computer, clicking open tabs at random— comic book forum he sometimes visited, Princeton's website, and somehow he'd ended up on American Apparel, combing through windbreakers. He scratched the back of his neck, curled hair still damp. It'd been three months since they'd lost their home country, two since Clint legally adopted the pair, and a little over a week that Pietro was finally back on his feet. Though, he still wasn't quite back to running.

 

Of course he missed it. Anytime he did go out for a jog though, he'd find himself hunched over against a tree, feeling like an earthquake was rippling through his body and about ready to hurl. After what Ultron had done to him — he'd cringed the first time he saw the photos from the medical reports — no one thought he'd ever wake up. Once airborne, they rushed him to the on-sight medical unit.

 

All he could remember was Clint hovering over him (whispering "It's gonna be okay, kid"), hear Wanda's softly sobbing (or maybe sound was just really muddled in his ears). There was a strong smell of blood, the taste of death on his tongue— what did death taste like, everyone always asked him. Made his taste buds numb and mouth feel fuzzy, his teeth ached and there was a rush of adrenaline mixed with anxiety. But also relief, a warm relief that could only be described with the color "white".

 

His eyes, he hadn't remembered closing them. Guess it was the body's natural instinct when it came to trauma. He knew he was safe in that moment, safe in Clint's farm house with his little hooligans running around and the comfort of Lucky licking at his face. But, Pietro was scared. He always felt some sense of fear. God, it was so exhausting, physically and mentally. He kept getting these, what only could be described as, "attacks", where his body would freeze and he couldn't regain control. The worst was when he'd woke up, drenched and covers thrown on the floor, with his lights on because he'd been screaming in his sleep.

 

Wanda was in his room with Lucky behind her. He'd cuddled with that dog the rest of the night— Lucky was a little shit, but he was also one of the sweetest animals Pietro'd ever met.The next morning, Clint sat him down at their living room table.

 

"T _hink it'd help if you talked to Tony, Piet. He gets the same kinda stuff, uh, anxiety or whatever,_ " Clint was half mumbling into a cup of coffee. Pietro only waved him off.

 

The only thing that usually calmed him down when he got in this state was thinking of Wanda. He was always expected to be the stronger of the two; always look out for her, take care of her, but he needed her just as much, if not more. He breathed through his nostrils, shaky, and with his thumb, he stroked down corduroy, tracing circles. He needed to ground himself. Sure, running might help, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to try again.

 

With a quirk of his eyebrows, he could almost hear a faint 'ding' his brain gave out as the wheels in his head started turning. Wanda made a 'documentary' (aka a lot of horribly filmed footage she roughly edited together), their junior year of high school. Hopefully he still had the file.

 

Muffled through his music, he heard the chime of the front door open. His lips started curving; there was a filed named "Pie's race: a Wanda production". He yanked one bud out of his ear, waving over his shoulder. "Hey."

 

"Hey," the tone of Clint's voice sounded tired. Pietro was about to crane his neck, but then he felt his fingers card through his hair. Sometimes, Clint reminded Pietro of his birth father— the way he'd joke around with them, they way he carried himself and always put family first.

 

He roughly shoved Pietro's feet from the couch as he plopped down, peeling off his hoodie. "Do anything today, or are you bein' a lazy ass again?"

 

Pietro grinned at him knowingly. Awkwardly twisting his torso, he set his laptop down on the coffee table. He'd already opened the movie player, kept it on pause though, the first clip of the video pixelated. "I am not being lazy. Bed rest, remember? It was the doctor's orders."

 

"Yeah, from like, a month ago. Quit using that excuse," Clint was reaching to flick Pietro's arm but he'd caught his wrist, shaking his head as his nose wrinkled.

 

"Look, I found two new jacket and a video Wanda made. It was a very productive day, what more do you want?"

 

Clint let out a breathy chuckle. "Glad you showered at least," he curled his fingers under the towel Pietro tossed aside. Clearly it was still wet because there was now a dark circular mark on the cushions. "Dammit, Piet," he almost whined.

 

"Sorry," he gestured at the screen. "Did you not hear the part about finding a video?"

 

"Nah, just heard something about expensive jackets."

 

Pietro rolled his eyes and was about to let out a long, annoyingly exaggerated sigh but then Clint was throwing his arm around his shoulders, snorting. "C'mon, show me. This of your... hometown?"

 

He nodded, tapping the space bar. "Yeah. From the day I won a scholarship to Princeton, actually." There was a proud look forming on Clint's face.

 

"No shit, really?"

 

"Mm," he hummed, "it never happened— but the running was fun."

 

Clint's forehead creased. "Whaddya mean it 'never happened'?"

 

Pietro sucked in his cheeks. "There was— just watch the video, Clint. It's okay, though. I wouldn't be allowed on the track team now anyways."

 

"Why not?" Clint's eyes traveled back to the laptop.

 

"Mutants are banned. There was a big incident in the past. And, this, this was before the, well, you know. So now I would not be allowed."

 

He felt Clint squeeze his shoulder. "God, I'm sorry, Piet. You're too young to havta deal with all this shit."

 

"It's fine."

Sprinkles of rain started trickling down teasingly, a light pitter patter against the metal of the bleachers Wanda sat on, fogging the lens of her phone's camera. Dark clouds, drooping under their own weight, scattered across the already grey-painted sky, hiding the sun away for another day; nothing unusual as far as Sokovia weather went.

 

—The memories of that day still brought butterflies to his stomach. Wasn't a bad feeling though. Actually made him feel alive and happy for a few seconds.

 

With a harsh shift, the footage became blurred before turning off black, static following. Wanda pulled the phone from her shirt with a half hearted puff of air, laughing as she immediately zoomed into Pietro's face. He'd been leaning over the metal fence lining the track, arms crossed over one another and dangling care free. His pale pink lips had pulled into a sharp smirk, subtle lines forming around his mouth as his cheeks raised, a short chuckle escaping him.

 

" _What are you doing over there? First you are filming the birds in the sky,_ " he shifted onto a single elbow, gesturing above himself with a wave of his hand, " _now you film me just standing around_."

 

" _You are right_ ," her fingers wiggled in front of the camera, " _you are much too boring. Do something for the video, Pietro._ "

 

" _What do you want?_ " His position straightened with a huff of his chest, hand locked together behind his back as he stretched. He continued his question, " _For me to do a little dance_?"

 

"Oh no," his face fell. Clint was already laughing in his ear.

 

" _You could try_?" She proposed jokingly, only to fall into a fit of laughter as Pietro shuffled over his feet, wet grass squeaking under his shoes as he pulled one knee to his stomach, bringing it back down to switch his position, fists looping in circles as he repeated the motions, mimicking the "running man". " _Pietro,_ " she cooed. " _Now this is the kind of entertainment the audience wants to see_."

 

His dark brows raised. " _What audienc_ —" he craned his neck, curled brown locks bouncing against his forehead. Wanda's shoes clunked against the bleachers as she turned, zooming on their adoptive father, who was also Pietro's coach, an amused look plastered across his face.

 

" _Obrati pažnju_ ," he stared past the camera towards Wanda, his thin lips falling into a frown, hands on either side of his hips. " _Wanda, sta radiš_?"

 

"What's that?" Clint asked, Pietro turning to look at him.

 

"Dad, it's Serbian."

 

"Yeah," he lightly scoffed, "I know that, smartass. What's it mean?"

 

"Is it not more fun when you don't know?"

 

"No, it's definitely not."

 

Pietro shrugged, ignoring his question.

 

" _Is nothing Django!_ " She called to him, waving him off, their mother's hand coming in the corner of the shot as she tugged on the sleeve of her black, knitted cardigan.

 

" _Let your brother be. He needs to finish his practice, dear_ ," Wanda whirled to capture Marya, her face falling flat. She gave a small wave. " _Hi_."

 

"And, those are your..." he pointed at the screen.

 

"Aunt and uncle."

 

"Right, right."

 

The video harshly cut, the sun now trying to make an appearance as it grew closer to noon, the dew of the field glistening. Wanda panned across their high school's star athletes, tall men with broad builds all wearing matching black jersey tops, their school's logo embroidered across their backs in puffy, gold letting. She focused on Pietro, who was stretched out across the ground, one leg in front of him, palm clutched around the tip of his sneaker. His scrunched face going slack, he leaned back on his elbows, eyes traveling towards Wanda with a final glare.

 

Balancing on one arm, he flipped off the camera, his expression too smug for his own good.

 

"Nice," Clint chimed in.

 

" _Pietro,_ " Marya's voice boomed, his teammates slapping their knees with boisterous laughs. Another brunette dashed over to her brother, their heads colliding as he hook his arm recklessly around his shoulders, pointing towards the bleachers.

 

" _Ah, do me next! Slikati_ ," he froze in his position, flexing his biceps to the best of his ability. Pietro slapped him across the chest, shrugging him off. "It's video, you idiot. You don't need to stand so still."

 

" _Video?_ " Pietro rolled his eyes at his friend's dumbfounded expression.

 

" _She is making one of those_ ," he gestured uselessly, "d _ocumentary type videos, of the race today_."

 

" _Oh_ ," the brunet called towards Wanda, " _why are you making a documentary_?"

 

She snorted. " _Why not_?"

 

Another abrupt cut of clips, skipping to Wanda with her arms outstretched, talking to the camera with a crinkle to her eyes. Their mother was leaning into the shot, her attention focused off in the distance. Her voice was nearly drowned out by the loud speakers and erupting cheers of her classmates.

 

"Always filming herself. Weirdo."

 

"Piet," the way he said his name made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "I know you try hiding it, but I know you got one of those damn selfie stick things. S'in your sock drawer."

 

Pietro coughed. "Alright, whatever..."

 

" _Today is the day Pietro has been training for, for four years_ ," she whipped the camera around, a harsh zoom to her brother cracking his neck, fingers laced in front of him. She turned it back on herself, " _the ‘a hundred metre dash’. If he wins, and of course he will_ ," she leaned towards Marya, " _What was the school?_ "

 

" _Princeton_ ," she responded with a nod of her head.

 

" _Yes_ , the Princeton University. Pietro will get scholarship to be on the men's cross country team," her nose crinkled. " _It is in America, of course. Do not know how he will live without me, so far away_ ,"  her grey eyes rolled as she pierced directly into the camera, " _I will visit sometimes, brother. Do not worry. You will not miss me so bad_."

 

" _Dear, please_ ," Marya patted her cheek, "O _ni počinje. Film your brother and not your own face for this one moment._ "

 

" _Alright, mama_ ," the camera slowly went in and out of focus, finally settling on a hunched over Pietro, his brows tightly knit. With a loud fire of the starter pistol, he took off —he side-eyed his friend with a cocky grin— arms swinging tandem of one another, leaving the other runners behind in his trail of dirt and dust. The crowd grew excitable, their chants shifting from one name to the other, Marya joining in as she softly yelled Pietro's.

 

"You see me? Bet you can't."

 

"You're real speedy, kid," Clint ran his fingers through his hair again, getting Pietro to groan. It's not like he ever brushed his hair in the first place, but, he didn't have to make it worse.

 

He was nearly a blur on film as he sped down the track. With his arms in the air, Pietro crossed through the finish line, spinning on his heels, his happily defeated friends surrounding him, piling on him with back pats and cheerful hugs.

 

The noise of the celebration was quickly replaced with a low whistling, traveling through the thick of the foggy air, crashing with a sharp collision of booms as it touched the ground's surface, an explosion of smoke erupting over the skyline of distant buildings. Yells and screams died down to murmurs and hushes as everyone nervously watched, Pietro's head craning upwards; Wanda angled her phone at the hazy poof of dust, sparks of electricity from a busted transformer mixed with fire slowly rising.

 

From the corner of his eye, he could see Clint's face now falling. He nudged him. "This is what it was like, every day."

 

A blaring siren played across the field, their father harshly yelling towards the crowd, frantically waving his hands towards the school's back entrance, _"Uđi unutra! Get inside!"_

 

Wanda stood up with Marya, accidently filming their grasped hands, shuffling from their seats. Everyone was trying to move at once, causing nothing but a sea of people anxiously pushing and shoving. There was a second bang, close enough to rattle the wire fences around the school yard.

 

" _Mama, we need to find Pietro_ ," Wanda croaked, scanning the area with her arm held high. She heard Pietro shout her name, saw him being lead inside by their father, heard him shout again, "a _t least get my good side_!"

 

" _It's no time for jokes, brother_ ," she called back, her tone waving, but she still snorted nonetheless. Then, the screen went black, video coming to an abrupt halt.

 

"That it?" Clint was frowning.

 

"Yeah," he scratched the overgrown scruff of his chin. "We took shelter inside the school. Everyone was okay."

 

Then Clint was sighing, deep from his chest. He pushed himself from the couch, jumping to his feet, tugging on Pietro's sleeve. "Man, you're so good at running. I know, it's different now. Can tell how happy it makes you though."

 

"Dad, I don't—" he reluctantly stood, stuffing his iPod back into his sweatpants. Clint was trailing towards their front door, pulled a jacket off their coat rack. He tossed it towards him.

 

"Doesn't matter. Been long enough, Piet. Gotta get off your ass at some point, right?"

 

* * *

 

"'kay," Clint had a hand on one hip and phone in his other. He'd dragged them out to the field behind their house. He basically lived on a farm in the middle of piss-all nowhere; lots of grass, hills and the occasional horse.

 

Pietro was keeping his head hung low, looking down at the ground. He kicked the light dirt of the narrow path that circled around them.

 

"I'm gonna time you. Two laps, fast as you can."

 

"Clint," Pietro clapped his knees, hunched over himself. There was a familiar feeling of nausea. He wasn't running yet, but his head was sure racing.

 

"Nuh uh, no backing outta this. Exercise is good for you," Clint nodded at the trail.

 

Oh, God. It was happening again. His throat was tightening and muscles were clenching. He could feel his heart racing in his fingertips. "I can't."

 

His eyes... Why were they always closing? He couldn't pry them open. But grounding his this time instead was the feeling of Clint's hand on his back. He spoke to him, gentle, and it soothed his jumpy nerves.

 

"Listen. We're all in rough shape after what happened. Nat's still calling me every fuckin' morning, crying, because no one knows where Bruce is still. At least with you," his patting turned into a light slap, "you can run out your problems instead of running away from them."

 

He knew Clint was right. He still really did love running; maybe his powers made it a bit more tiring now, but the feeling of the wind on his face and earth still underneath the soles of his shoes... was nothing else quite like it.

 

"Okay," he finally said, straightening his posture. Just as he'd turned his back to Clint, and pulled his headphones out of his pocket, he heard him mutter, "Hey, promise me you won't tell Nat I told you that, alright?"

 

"You should not tell me these things if you expect them not to be repeated." Looking over his shoulder, he grinned something wicked before speeding off, sighing a breath of relief for the first time in— he couldn't remember how long.

 

* * *

 


End file.
